I watched Lyra closely for the rest of the way to the library, unable to tear my eyes from her as she wandered through the maze of streets and alleyways. She seemed lost, not in confusion, but in something deeper—an unspoken connection to the city’s crumbling beauty. Her gaze lingered on the ancient, worn facades, eyes tracing the remnants of what had once been. It was as if she could see beyond the decay, imagining the grandeur that time had stolen. Occasionally, her fingers would brush the surface of a decaying fence or a crumbling wall, a tender gesture that felt like an attempt to touch the city’s memory, to feel its stories beneath her skin.
As Gale droned on about boggles and the dangers we might face, Lyra nodded absentmindedly, barely aware of his words. I could see her thoughts were elsewhere, tangled in the history of the ruins. Yet, as I watched her—her quiet reverence, her subtle curiosity—I felt something stir in me, something new and unsteady. It was more than just admiration now. Something was changing, growing, though I wasn’t sure if I was ready to admit it yet.
I shoved my feelings back into the dark recesses where they belonged, locking them away before they could surface again. As I berated myself for allowing these unwanted emotions to creep in, I collided squarely with Shadowheart, the impact jarring enough to knock the breath from me. "Gods damn it," I muttered, barely managing to stay upright as I stumbled.
Gale stood motionless, his gaze fixed on the structure before us—a manor house so decrepit it seemed as though time itself had devoured it and spat out the remnants. The building oozed decay. Putrid pools surrounded it, bubbling with vile, noxious liquids that hissed and spat like living things. The air around them was thick with the stench of rot and acid, making my stomach churn. Even the raw amethyst crystals lining the grounds, once vibrant and full of energy, were dulled and lifeless, their usual radiant purple drained to a sickly, pale hue.
The manor itself leaned precariously, its walls sagging as though buckling under their own weight. Cracks ran through every stone and beam, and it appeared that even a whisper might send the whole place collapsing in on itself. Every inch of the structure screamed neglect; an abomination held together by some lingering malevolent force. It wasn’t just the sight of it; it was the feeling—like the building itself exuded a foul presence, daring anyone to come closer at their own peril.
"Why did we stop here? I thought we were looking for a library, not the best spot to catch Ashfever or Blightborn," I asked, my voice dripping with sarcasm as I glared at the grotesque structure before us. "This building is disgusting," I sneered, unable to hide the contempt in my voice. It was as if the place had been designed to make people sick just by looking at it.
"Oh... how wrong you are, Astarion," Gale said, his voice laced with wonder as he gazed at the building, a glint of fascination lighting up his eyes. "Imagine, if you will, a structure not merely of stone and mortar but one bathed in the mysteries of twilight. The whole place is drenched in radiant violet, the kind that deepens with dusk. The windows, like the eyes of a slumbering giant, glow softly, pulsing with lavender light, sending long, rippling shadows that dance across the walls like the tides of a forgotten sea.
Look closer and you'll see the intricate runes, carved into the stone like whispers of ancient secrets, each etched in hues of plum and indigo. The very surface of the building seems to hum with energy, a silent thrum that resonates with the magic it contains. And there, at the apex, a dome perches like a regal crown, shimmering in deep amethyst hues—glowing like a beacon in the ever-fading light, drawing the eye and soul alike. This isn’t just a building; it’s alive, pulsing with the lifeblood of knowledge and enchantment, waiting to be uncovered by those brave enough to enter its embrace."
Gale stepped further down the cracked stone pathway leading to the wretched manor. As he passed beneath a large, rusted gate, the building before us began to twist and contort, its decayed form bending unnaturally. Then, without warning, like fire consuming the edges of ancient parchment, bursts of purple light started piercing through the thick, foul air. One by one, glowing fissures opened, spreading across the structure. The rotting facade peeled away, slowly revealing something far more extraordinary beneath, as though the manor itself had been a mere illusion, hiding a treasure lost to time.
What emerged was a towering structure of enigmatic beauty, as if awakening from a centuries-long slumber. The vibrant purples that now infused the space around us radiated a sense of both tranquility and immense power, as though the very essence of ancient wisdom had taken root in its towering walls. Intricate details came into view—delicate carvings, ethereal runes, and shining amethyst crystals that glimmered in the fading light.
Gale, his face illuminated by the violet glow, turned to us with a flourish, gesturing grandly behind him. "Ladies, gentlemen... and Astarion," he said with a broad smile, locking eyes with me. He paused for dramatic effect before spreading his arms wide. "The Amethyst Athenaeum."
Slowly, our party began to move forward, captivated by the breathtaking sight of the enormous building that had long been lost to enchantment and time. It was easy to understand why this had once been the crown jewel of the city. As we approached, two towering ashwood doors greeted us, standing like sentinels of forgotten knowledge. Their dark, almost black wood was inlaid with stunning stained-glass panels that seemed to pulse with life. Rich hues of deep purple, sapphire, and gold shimmered from the glass, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the entrance.
The glass itself was a masterpiece, depicting sprawling nightshade apple trees, their obsidian apples framed by golden blossoms that matched the ornate dark wood of the door's frame. The imagery felt alive, as if the trees themselves were beckoning us inward, their heavy, mysterious fruit ready to reveal the secrets within.
The handles of the doors were shaped like giant silver scrolls, elegantly unfurling as if welcoming us to unfold the stories hidden beyond. Each scroll handle gleamed under the dim light, cold to the touch yet brimming with an ancient energy, almost as if it carried the weight of countless untold histories.
Lyra reached out, her hand trembling slightly as she rested it on the cool silver. With a deep breath, she pushed one of the great doors open, the creak of its ancient hinges echoing in the silence. As the door swung slowly inward, we stepped into the library’s threshold. Lyra only managed a few steps before she stopped, frozen in awe, her gaze swept up by the overwhelming beauty of the vast, sacred space that awaited us within.
The library sprawled before me like a cathedral to knowledge, its high-arched ceilings reminiscent of a sacred sanctuary. Rays of violet light cascade through stained-glass windows, dappling the air with soft hues, like the filtered glow of a setting sun kissing the world goodnight. Each shelf, an intricate latticework of dark wood and delicate carvings, seems to grow out of the floor like ancient trees, their branches extending skyward to cradle countless books and tomes.
Books, weathered and wise, fill every inch, their spines shimmering with gold leaf that reflects the light like stars in a forgotten constellation. The very air smells of old parchment, ink, and a hint of dust—each particle a testament to the centuries of wisdom held within these walls. The books were not merely stored here; they were revered, displayed like relics in alcoves framed with gilded arches, each niche holding volumes as if they were treasures.
In a room to our left, beneath the soft glow of chandeliers that hang like celestial orbs, sits a sprawling table, cluttered yet organized, with maps, scrolls, and manuscripts in various stages of study. The table itself is adorned with brass inlays, detailing the constellations, as if the room were a map of the heavens. Small potted plants sit here and there, their leaves a vibrant contrast to the dark, polished wood, like patches of forest among the towering shelves.
Above, the vaulted ceiling soars into shadows, carved with intricate patterns that seem almost alive, telling stories of forgotten eras. The sound of my footsteps is swallowed by the plush, age-worn rugs that cover the hard marbled floor in delicate patterns of deep crimson and gold, making my presence feel small and reverent.
“This is no ordinary library,” Gale mused “Oh to have studied here when it was the thriving heartbeat of the city. This library is not a mere place of books but a living entity, a sanctuary where knowledge breathes and history whispers through the rustling of paper, calling out to any soul willing to listen. It feels eternal, as if it has stood since time immemorial, patiently guarding its secrets.” He was not wrong, here, time seemed to slow, and the weight of centuries pressed gently against my senses, inviting me to lose myself in the endless corridors of thought and discovery.
I carefully stepped past Lyra and Gale, my movements deliberate as I crossed the threshold of the archway, as though the very air demanded reverence. Each step was slow, measured, the sound of my footfalls muffled against the ancient stone floor beneath me. The weight of the room seemed to press gently on my shoulders, urging caution, as though this next space held secrets that had not been disturbed for centuries. It felt like I was entering the very soul of the library, and I couldn’t help but move with quiet respect, my breath shallow as the heart of this forgotten place revealed itself before me.
The central room of the library that we now stood in unfolded like a hidden sanctuary beneath the heavens, its vaulted dome revealing a large, glowing moon suspended within a sea of starry light. The moon cast a gentle glow over the entire room, and golden flecks of luminescent particles drift lazily through the air, like enchanted fireflies set free to dance in the tranquil atmosphere. The light they gave off was warm and soft, bathing the space in a dreamlike quality, as though time itself paused to observe the serene beauty of this place.
Tall, circular bookshelves wrap around the room, their rich, dark wood brimming with countless volumes, creating the impression of an endless well of knowledge. The shelves are carved with intricate patterns of vines, climbing upward toward the glass dome, where they seem to blend with the pale light above. Every book appears lovingly placed, their colors ranging from the faded yellows of ancient tomes to the vibrant reds and blues of newer works, each one whispering the promise of forgotten stories or hidden truths.
At the heart of the room, sturdy wooden tables and chairs are arranged with a perfect balance of purpose and comfort, inviting scholars and seekers to sit beneath the moon's watchful gaze. The tables glow with the soft amber light of carefully positioned lamps, their gentle flickering adding a sense of intimacy to the grand space. It feels as if the room itself is alive, breathing wisdom into the air, urging those who enter to settle in and explore its depths.
The air carries the familiar scent of old books and parchment, mingled with a hint of nature—perhaps from the embershade ivy that snakes along the columns or the gentle breeze from an unseen source. The door at the far end is framed by tall, arched windows, and beyond it, amethyst light spills onto the stone floor, blending with the lunar glow from above like a harmony of night and day.
“Gale,” Lyra interrupted her awe of the room, glancing around with curiosity. “Are boggles usually prone to such pristine living quarters?”
“Quite the contrary, my dear,” Gale replied, his voice dripping with faux authority as he surveyed the immaculate space. “They live and breed in absolute squalor. If I had to make a highly... educated guess, they likely see these areas as their treasure troves or baubles. To find our wee beasties, we’ll need to track down their nest and, presumably, their leader. Boggles are mostly harmless nuisances—more annoying than dangerous…”
“Sounds familiar,” I cut in with a snicker, my eyes flicking toward him.
Gale sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes as he continued, “If we capture their leader, the others will likely scatter. They’re like small children—and certain adventurers.” His gaze landed pointedly on me. “They cause all sorts of mischief and mayhem, but they’re quick to run off the moment they get scolded.”
“How will we know which one is the leader?” Halsin asked, his voice low but tense.
“Look for the most obnoxious and largest boggle,” Gale replied, his tone dry. “Like children, the biggest brute will reign over the others.”
Before his words could fully sink in, the air was suddenly filled with an eerie chorus of cackles and giggles. Laughter echoed from every dark corner and hidden crevice, the sound slithering through the shadows like a living thing. It was high-pitched and sharp, each snicker punctuated by hissing breaths, as though the very darkness itself was mocking us. The pale light from the moon above flickered as the sounds grew louder, multiplying, overlapping, until the library seemed alive with their chaotic mirth.
Skittering noises and wet plops reverberated from the floor, hinting at countless small bodies darting just beyond the reach of our sight. The boggles were everywhere, moving unseen in the gloom, their cruel laughter rising and falling like a twisted melody. They knew we had entered their sanctuary, and their laughter—grating and incessant—promised nothing but mischief and mayhem ahead.
Lyra stood at the center of the room, her eyes darting between the various archways, clearly weighing our options with care. Each path seemed to hold its own mystery, and for several long moments, she hesitated, her brow furrowed in thought. Finally, with a resigned shrug, she turned toward the archway on our right and began to move, her steps cautious but determined. The others trailed behind her without question.
I lingered for a moment, the sound of distant snickers from the hidden boggles echoing faintly in my ears. Their mischief still hung in the air, making me second-guess following too quickly. After a final glance at the shifting shadows, I sighed and followed them further into the depths of the library.
As I stepped through the doorway, I stopped short. My companions had come to a sudden halt, frozen in place, their eyes fixed on the obstacle before us. Whatever awaited us had them utterly transfixed, and a sense of foreboding settled over me as I stepped up beside them.
“Shit” I groaned out loud. The boggles had transformed the room into an unfathomable maze, a labyrinth crafted from towers of books that stretched impossibly high, creating winding corridors of knowledge. The narrow pathways twisted and turned with no clear direction, the shelves on either side packed tightly with volumes that teetered precariously, as if the very structure of the maze itself could collapse under its own weight. The spines of the books varied in color, age, and size, forming a mismatched patchwork wall of literature, yet none offered any clues or answers to guide the way.
The maze was alive with a strange energy, as if the boggles themselves had shaped it with mischief in mind. Every twist and corner felt deliberate, each pathway leading to further confusion, the air thick with the smell of aged parchment and ink. Some books had tumbled out of their places, scattered haphazardly across the floor like forgotten breadcrumbs, but there was no clear pattern to their placement, only more chaos.
Karlach, ever the one to take the direct route, marched up to a towering column of books, clearly intent on bulldozing through the maze rather than navigating its twisting paths. With a grunt, she pressed her hand against the stack, ready to shove them aside. But the moment her palm touched the spines, a sharp crack split the air, reverberating through the room like a thunderclap. Small bolts of lightning sprang from the books, snaking around her hand in a bright, crackling display. The sudden jolt caused Karlach to pull back with a hiss, her fingers still tingling from the shock.
“Fucking hells! That smarts!” She bellowed waving her hand about.
“A for effort darling, but I doubt these little shits plan to make this easy on us.” I smiled with annoyance.
Lyra stepped forward entering the maze gesturing for us to follow. We moved cautiously through the winding corridors, our footsteps muted on the smooth marble floor beneath us. The silence of the library had been replaced by the faint rustling of pages and the occasional skittering sound that echoed through the narrow passages—an ever-present reminder that we were not alone. Every now and then, distant giggles and hushed whispers seemed to bounce off the walls, as if the boggles were watching from the shadows, entertained by our struggle to navigate their maze.
The walls of books seemed to breathe, subtly shifting as if alive, guiding us deeper into the labyrinth. We turned left, then right, then left again, only to find ourselves in a small, square room surrounded by towering shelves. Each wall had a distinct reference section: to the north, Illusions and Deceptive Realms; to the east, Tales of Mischief and Mayhem; to the south, Potions of Peculiarity and Oddities; and lastly, to the west, The Infinite Jest Compendium. Each section framed a doorway, beckoning us further into the maze.
"Which way do we go?" Lyra asked, her voice breaking the silence as she glanced between the options.
I smirked and raised an eyebrow. "I don’t know about you, darling, but illusions, mayhem, and peculiarity are practically breakfast for us at this point. I say we head for the lighter side of life." With a flourish, I pointed toward The Infinite Jest Compendium.
Before anyone could offer an alternative, the Gith stormed ahead through the doorway, leaving us with little choice but to shrug and follow her. As soon as I stepped through, I heard the familiar hum of the books behind us rearranging, sealing the path with an unsettling finality. A momentary flash of panic sparked as I turned and tried to pry open the now solid wall of literature.
“Maybe it’s not so—" My sentence was cut short by a sharp crack of lightning, the same kind that had singed Karlach earlier, now striking my hand as if the books themselves were having a laugh at my expense.
“Gods damn it, that stings!” I yelped, clutching my hand as I glared at the offending shelves.
Gale’s grin was far too wide for my liking. “Oh, I do love when the universe agrees with me,” he said, clearly enjoying my discomfort a little too much.
“Well, that’s one way to discourage shortcuts,” Lyra smiled holding back a chuckle “Forward it is it would appear.” After a few more winding twists and turns we found ourselves entering another room, once again as the last of us crossed the threshold of the door the books shifted locking us inside. This time, however, there was no doorway out. The room seemed innocent enough, with shelves containing nothing but old, dusty books of jokes, riddles, and satirical tales.
As we scanned the room, a low rumble emanated from a nearby shelf, drawing our attention. Slowly, three books began to shake, vibrating as if alive, until they slid forward to the very edge of the shelf. Lyra, ever cautious, stepped closer, her eyes narrowing as she studied the spines without daring to touch them.
"Twice as Simple, Half as Clear, I Am Not What I Seem, and The Key is in the Question," she read aloud, her voice echoing slightly in the stillness.
"Riddles," Gale mused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "It seems our little friends are fond of puzzles. Clearly, they expect us to solve one to leave the room."
"Aww, riddles," Karlach groaned, rolling her eyes with exaggerated frustration. "I hate riddles."
"It seems we don’t have a choice," Lyra said, glancing at the group. "Any thoughts on which one we should choose?"
Gale, always the strategist, crossed his arms and considered the titles carefully. "Logically, The Key is in the Question feels a little too obvious," he remarked. "And nothing the boggles do is ever simple or clear…"
"I Am Not What I Seem doesn’t exactly scream 'trust me' either does it?" I chuckled, shaking my head. "Feels like it’s begging to be a trap."
Gale shot me a look, pausing for dramatic effect. "If I recall correctly, Astarion," he said with a smirk, "you were the one who chose the door that landed us in this mess."
"Point taken," I muttered, smirking back.
Suddenly, Shadowheart spoke up, her voice cutting through the playful banter. "Twice as Simple, Half as Clear," she said firmly. "I'm not about to trust a book that tells me it’s hiding something or one that claims to have the key in its title. That seems far too easy. The boggles are playing a game with us, and the real answer won’t be so obvious."
The room fell silent as we all contemplated her reasoning. The weight of the choice hung in the air, and though none of us were fond of riddles, we all knew we had to trust our instincts and, unfortunately, the riddle itself. Lyra let out a heavy sigh and reached for Twice as simple, Half as Clear. Her fingers gently touching the spine of the book, she closed her eyes and scrunched her nose waiting for the electrical shock. When nothing happened, she firmly grasped the book and opened it.
The pages came to life quickly turning until they landed on a page in the middle of the book. The words written on the page came to life floating above our heads for all to read:
One chance is all you have
I speak without a tongue,
I hear without ears,
I stand still yet always move,
I bring joy and tears.
Twice as simple, I seem to be,
But half as clear as you can see.
What am I?
“Bloody Hells, it could be anything!” Karlach cursed “Like a damn shadow for all I know.” As the words left her lips Karlach’s hands quickly clamped her mouth shut, her eyes wide with her mistake. The book’s words turned red, and laughter filled the air as the boggles hissed and snickered.
“It was mirror,” Gale winced at Karlach “clear as day, it plays on the idea of a mirror reflecting reality, yet only showing you a version of it, not the whole truth.”
As Gale finished his explanation of the correct answer, the room seemed to shimmer, and out of the air, mirror images of each member of our party began to materialize, stepping out of invisible reflections with exaggerated, mischievous grins plastered across their faces. They looked like twisted parodies—slightly off, their movements overly dramatic, their expressions playful and sly. Before anyone could react, the chaos erupted.
Gale’s double immediately raised its hands, conjuring a harmless but flamboyant spray of rainbow-colored sparks that rained down on the real Gale, who sputtered in surprise as his robes turned a garish shade of neon pink. “Really? This is your idea of magic?” he growled, but his doppelgänger simply cackled and vanished behind a bookshelf, only to pop up again in another spot, laughing like a madman.
Karlach's clone, meanwhile, was no less mischievous. With a gleeful roar, it raced toward her, pretending to trip and spill a bucket of illusory mud all over her armor. Karlach blinked, looking down in confusion as her reflection howled in laughter, rolling on the floor. “Oh, you think that’s funny, do you?!” Karlach bellowed, but every attempt to catch her reflection ended with her clone disappearing and reappearing just out of reach, leaving her in a wild chase through the library’s maze-like shelves.
Lyra’s double, more subtle but no less obnoxious, began to pull every book off the shelves, scattering them everywhere. As Lyra reached out to stop her, the mirror image snapped her fingers, and the books came to life, flapping like birds, diving at the real Lyra as she ducked and swatted, trying to fend off the assault of enchanted tomes. "Oh, for the love of—stop that!" she yelled, but her clone only winked and disappeared behind a floating stack of books, giggling uncontrollably
Even I wasn’t spared. My reflection, with a sly smirk, sidled up to me and, in one swift motion, replaced my finely crafted silk shirt with a ragged, moth-eaten one. I froze in disgust as my pants were replaced with burlap in the most horrendous shade of pink. "This is positively insulting," I hissed, glaring down at the fashion nightmare he saddled me with, my clone smiled and darted away, blowing a kiss as it vanished into thin air.
Amidst the chaos, I pulled Lyra to me sparing her from the swooping books and joined the others now gathering in the center of the room, our party was breathless and bewildered as their doubles wreaked havoc all around them, from swapping Gale's staff for a broom to conjuring up illusory pies that splattered in Karlach’s face whenever she got too close. But the trickster’s reflections weren't attacking—they were playing, pranking, and clearly enjoying themselves.
“Wait... they’re pranking us because we answered the riddle wrong. This is their game!” Shadowheart shouted in realization.
Lyra wiped a smudge of illusory ink from her cheek. “Then how do we stop it?”
“They’re mirrors,” Gale muttered, eyes narrowing. “Maybe we have to prank ourselves to break the illusion.”
Karlach snorted. “You’re telling me the way out is to make a joke of ourselves?”
Shadowheart smirked. “Exactly. They’re just reflections, and they want to play. So, let’s play.”
With a shrug and wanting nothing more than to rid myself if this dastardly outfit, I dramatically leapt onto a nearby table, grabbed a floating book, and, in an over-the-top fashion, began reading it aloud in the most pompous voice imaginable, Gale. “Ah, yes, a treatise on how to behave like a complete and utter fool—a most appropriate selection, if I do say so myself!”
The mirror version of myself burst into laughter, and one by one, the clones began to shimmer, slowly fading out of existence as each member of our party followed suit, playing along with the absurdity.
Gale created a magical pie and smacked himself in the face with it. Karlach wrestled herself to the ground, rolling in mock defeat. Lyra pretended to cast a powerful spell, chanting dramatically and waving her hands with excessive flair. She snapped her fingers with a flourish, but nothing happened. She stared at her hands in mock confusion and embarrassment, then tried again, this time only a small fizzle of pink smoke burst from her fingertips. The mirror Lyra burst into laughter dissolving into glittering dust.
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Halsin pretended to shift into bear form, only to trip over his own feet landing awkwardly and letting out an exaggerated roar that sounded more like a meowing kitten. Finally, the Gith, challenging herself to a dual swung her sword high above her head feigning its weight. It suddenly becoming more than she could bare, as she toppled over backwards letting out a dramatic defeated groan. The last of the two mirror images vanished doubling over with laughter.
The chaos settled, leaving us standing in the quiet, book-strewn room, covered in imaginary pies, sparkles, and mismatched clothes. Gale wiped a bit of illusory whipped cream off his nose and sighed. "Next time, we’re picking the book that doesn’t involve our egos." The room finally returned to its original state, the shimmering illusion broken by our own willingness to laugh at ourselves.
As the illusions faded and our clothes thankfully returned to normal, the air erupted with a chorus of hyena-like laughter, punctuated by sharp cackles and snickers. High above, perched atop a large bookshelf, sat a cluster of boggles, their oily, shimmering skin glistening in the dim light. They huddled together, their squat, grotesque bodies packed tight, like children sharing a secret. Their twisted grins stretched wide as their bulbous heads bobbed in unison with every wheezing laugh.
Their spindly, crooked limbs flailed wildly as they howled, slapping at the wood and each other in delight. Yellow, gleaming eyes darted over us, drinking in the sight of our bewilderment. Every time one of us moved, their laughter hit a higher, more frantic pitch, as if they were feeding off the chaos. The sound of their raspy, almost gasping chuckles filled the room, each boggle tipping over in mirth, barely able to stay perched as they rolled and kicked in their riotous amusement.
A large boggle, sat in the middle of the others, slapping its overgrown, sharp-nailed hands together in delight at our current state. A smaller boggle, its teeth yellow and uneven, giggled uncontrollably elbowing the larger one.
“Looks at ‘em, Smudgewit! Twice as stupids, half as clevers!” the boggle smirked.
“Asses! Let’s pranks them again! Again! Again!” Another one cheered.
The boggle leader, Smudgewit, stood slightly apart from its kin, he was watching us closely, almost calculatingly. He paced along the bookshelf, hunched over like the others, his knuckles dragging along the ground with each slow, deliberate step, his movements commanding attention. His bulbous head, far larger than that of the average boggle, sported ears that jutted out like wings—thin, leathery, and twitching at every sound. The creature's rubbery skin, a deep blackish blue marbled with streaks of sickly gray, seemed to hang loose and heavy, sagging where its youth had once held a springy elasticity. This old boggle was no longer bouncy but had become hardened and stiff, its flesh stretched taut over its bony frame.
Smudgewit’s face was a twisted amalgamation of features that appeared slapped together by some careless hand. One oversized eye bulged grotesquely from its socket, while the other was sunken deep, almost hidden in the shadow of its skull. Its nose was a long, flat ridge that sloped sharply downward, giving it a permanent sneer. Thin lips stretched wide across its face, revealing rows of crooked, yellowed teeth that glistened faintly with oily residue.
His limbs were a mismatch of disproportionate lengths. His arms, though long and gangly, appeared stronger than his small, withered legs, which seemed almost too weak to support the weight of its oversized head and torso. Smudgewit’s fingers were spindly, ending in sharp, claw-like nails that scraped the ground as it walked, leaving faint trails behind him.
Unlike the others surrounding him, which moved with a sense of nervous energy, Smudgewit carried himself with a certain grim authority. His gaze, though mismatched, was sharp and calculating, and it had an air of cunning that suggested he had survived through more than just luck. Around his neck hung a collection of trinkets—shiny stones, tarnished coins, and bits of metal—trophies of the mayhem he had orchestrated over time. These baubles jingled softly as he moved, marking his passage through the gloom like the distant chime of a warning bell.
The boggles around him were energized by his pacing, reveling in their chaotic mischief, growing bolder, their laughter rising like a chorus of screeching crows. They bounced and darted in and out of the shadows, taunting us with high-pitched giggles and jeers. Their oily essence left an ever-growing trail of muck as they danced and leaped between the shelves and books, their tiny, clawed feet barely touching the ground.
Smudgewit hopped from foot to foot, his beady eyes gleaming with mischief as he taunted Gale. “Chose wrong! Guessed wrong! Dimwitted muttonhead!” he screeched, his voice cracking with glee. His companions snickered and hissed in unison, their oily fingers twitching with anticipation.
Gale adjusted his robes and shot a stern glance at Smudgewit. “Now see here,” he began, his voice measured but firm. “I did know the correct answer. Stop this tomfoolery and let us out of the room at once. You lot have caused quite enough mischief for one day."
I raised an eyebrow at him. "What are you doing?"
"They're like unruly children," Gale replied, his expression smug. "Cowards when scolded. A little authority should whip them into shape." He turned back to Smudgewit, drawing himself up. “You heard me, playtime is over.”
For a moment, it seemed as though the boggles hesitated. And then—a sudden, loud splat echoed through the room.
Gale froze. The look on his face was priceless as a thick, slimy glob—of what he could only hope was mud—slid slowly down his cheek, leaving a gooey trail from his forehead to his chin. The substance clung for just a second longer before oozing onto his robes. Gale stood there, blinking in stunned silence.
The boggles erupted. Their high-pitched laughter filled the air as they doubled over, rolling on the ground, slapping their knees and each other in sheer joy. “Mudbrain!” he hissed “big man all talks, yes, yes…but finds himself all sticky now.” Smudgewit wheezed, his sides shaking from laughter.
Unable to help myself, I stifled a snicker. “Still have that handkerchief handy?”
Gale, taking a slow, steady breath, sighed. “Shadowheart,” he said, his voice weary, “would you be so kind?”
Barely managing to contain her own laughter, Shadowheart raised her hand and cast create water over Gale for the third time today. The torrent washed away the grime, leaving Gale soaked to the bone once again.
“Thank you,” he muttered, his expression resigned as the boggles’ howls of laughter continued to echo around us.
Content for the moment with the chaos his boggles had unleashed, Smudgewit waved for the rest of the horde to melt into the shadows. “These muck worms are no smarter than Plinket’s ass hairs,” he sneered. The boggles erupted into fits of laughter, pointing to a small, dull-eyed boggle idly scratching his rear, utterly oblivious to the chaos swirling around him. A thin string of drool hung from his jagged yellow teeth, swaying as he occasionally smacked his lips.
As the rest of the horde vanished into the shadows, Plinket remained, unbothered, still scratching lazily at his rear. His vacant gaze was fixed on the ground, and he showed no sign of realizing the others had gone.
“I get the feeling that one’s…special,” Lyra mused, her eyes narrowing as she studied him.
“Indeed, darling. Gale, care to take a shot at him?” I asked with a teasing smile.
Gale gave a dramatic sigh. “Oh, Astarion, I’d hate to stoop to his level. He seems more suited to your conversational style.”
Lyra, however, remained focused on the slow-witted creature, her head tilting slightly as she weighed him up. There was something calculating in her gaze, a flicker of inspiration behind her stormy eyes.
I leaned closer, intrigued. “Oh, do share, my sweet. I simply adore your schemes.”
Lyra’s silence was all the answer I needed—she was already planning something clever with poor, simple Plinket. Lyra turned from the small creature, determination sharpening her features as she dug through her pack. Her fingers sifted through the contents until they closed around what she was looking for—a medium burlap sack, perfectly sized for a boggle. A smile spread across her face.
"Oh, darling, I know he's dim," I said, puzzled. "But you can't seriously believe he'll just hop into your sack?"
Lyra grinned, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "You never have faith in me, Astarion. Watch and learn."
With a wink, she reached back into her pack, producing a delicate chain necklace with a gleaming golden pendant. She bumped my arm playfully as she passed, heading straight for the bookcase where Plinket was perched. The little boggle remained oblivious, still lazily scratching at himself, his mind as vacant as ever.
Lyra knelt and placed the sack on the ground, then raised the necklace, letting it catch the light as she jingled it softly. The sound and shimmer instantly snared Plinket’s attention. He stopped scratching, his droopy eyes locked onto the glittering trinket.
The boggle shuffled along the shelf, his gaze unwavering. His entire world became the necklace as it bobbed and swayed in Lyra’s hand. He inched closer, completely mesmerized, the drool on his chin glistening as his mouth hung slightly open. Lyra moved the necklace with slow, deliberate motions, teasing Plinket’s attention like a cat toying with a dangling string.
With one final sway, she lowered the necklace into the sack. Plinket’s eyes widened in horror as his precious bauble disappeared into the depths of the bag. A panicked whine escaped his lips as he paced the shelf, his little feet pattering with indecision. Lyra, calm as ever, backed away from the sack and stood still halfway between it and the rest of us.
Plinket hesitated a moment longer before clambering down from the shelf, his eyes flicking between Lyra and the sack. His longing for the lost necklace was written all over his face, his every step a cautious shuffle toward the bag. He stopped just at the sack’s edge, peering in but seeing nothing. His confusion deepened, but his need for the trinket was stronger than his fear.
He poked his head inside, sniffing and grunting as he tried to locate the prize. His movements grew frantic as he burrowed deeper, his little feet kicking up dust as he clambered into the sack entirely, lost in his quest for the necklace.
The moment he was fully inside, Lyra sprang forward, drawing the sack closed with a swift pull. She lifted it with a triumphant smile, holding it up for us to see as Plinket squirmed and wriggled inside, his muffled cries of frustration barely audible through the burlap.
“Tricks Plinket! Teases Plinket!” he wailed, struggling in vain against his capture.
Lyra grinned like a cat that had caught a particularly juicy mouse, holding up her other hand to reveal the necklace, now dangling innocently from her fingers.
“Well done, you,” I said, grinning in admiration. “Consider my lesson learned.”
"Indeed, well done," Gale mused, his grin returning. "He’ll be wanting that shiny bauble..." Gale began but was abruptly cut off by Plinket’s high-pitched squeal.
"Mines! My treasure! A trinket for Plinket, I saws it first!" the little creature cried from inside the sack, his voice full of indignation.
Gale stepped forward, leaning down to the sack to address him. "A trinket for Plinket indeed. Show us the way out of this maze and lead us to the nest, and the trinket is yours."
"Plinket can! Plinket can!" the boggle chirped, his tone bouncing between excitement and confusion. "But... Plinket can’t see in the darkness," he added with a pitiful whine.
Lyra, smiling to herself, loosened the sack just enough for Plinket’s head to poke out. His tiny, scruffy face appeared, eyes blinking in bewilderment as he surveyed the room. She tied the sack securely around his body, allowing him to remain half-trapped but with enough freedom to look around.
Plinket blinked again, and I couldn’t help but notice something peculiar. "Oh gods, his eyes are crossed. Are we really trusting this plan?" I said, staring at the absurd creature in disbelief.
Plinket’s little face scrunched up in an intense expression of concentration. "Plinket fixes it! Yes, fixes!" His cheeks puffed out, tongue sticking out slightly in effort, and slowly—oh so slowly—one eye drifted back to the center, followed by the other. His face lit up with a proud grin, as if he had just solved the most difficult puzzle in the world.
Karlach gasped in delight. "Oh! Can we keep him? Look at him!" she begged; her voice filled with childlike glee.
"Are you out of your mind? Absolutely not! We cannot keep him!" I scolded, though even I had to admit there was something oddly endearing about the little boggle.
Plinket, oblivious to the debate over his fate, wiggled his head proudly, his eyes wide and gleaming with innocent joy as he waited for his shiny prize. Lyra handed Plinket over to Gale, smirking. “You watch him. I’ll keep his shiny trinket in sight.” She dangled the necklace just out of reach, and Plinket’s eyes lit up, giggling with glee as he followed the swaying bauble like a child mesmerized by a toy.
“Plinket, which book do we choose?” Shadowheart asked, trying to get his attention.
But Plinket remained fixated on the necklace, eyes wide with fascination. Lyra, with a knowing grin, quickly hid the necklace behind her back. Plinket’s reaction was instant—his eyes welled with tears, his bottom lip quivering like a child about to throw a tantrum.
“Tricked! Book tricks, book is not book! Book is keys!” he wailed, his voice breaking with melodrama.
Lyra scanned the titles left on the shelf. “I Am Not What I Seem. That’s it—he said it’s a book that’s not a book, but a key.”
Shadowheart squinted at the shelves, her brow furrowed. “Are you sure it’s not The Key is in the Question? I mean, ‘key’ is literally in the title. Seems obvious.”
Lyra shook her head, amused. “He didn’t ask a question, did he? No, it’s I Am Not What I Seem. A key disguised as a book and a book that’s a key.” Without waiting for further debate, she grabbed the spine of the book and pulled. The sound of a lock clicking echoed through the chamber, and the shelf trembled, splitting apart to reveal a hidden doorway.
“Plinket helped! Plinket sees shiny now?” the little boggle begged, bouncing with excitement. Lyra couldn’t help but laugh, showing him the necklace once again. Plinket grinned like a fool, wriggling happily inside the sack as Gale struggled to keep hold of him.
“Let’s get out of this maze,” Lyra said, gesturing for Gale to lead the way, Plinket now thoroughly distracted.
“Yes, please, and quickly,” Gale muttered, his expression one of mild horror. “I think our new friend has become so excited he’s... peed in his sack.”
Leaning into Lyra, I whispered with a smirk, “This day just keeps getting better and better.”
Lyra bit her lip, fighting back laughter as we made our way through the newly revealed passage. We moved cautiously through the maze, the towering shelves of books twisted and loomed around us like some ancient forest made of parchment and leather. The musty scent of the old volumes clung to the air, thick and almost tangible, as we wove our way through narrow corridors. Every step felt like venturing deeper into a forgotten world of knowledge, the walls spiraling and twisting endlessly, creating a sense of unease.
But amid the tension, there was Plinket, a small boggle whose innocent enthusiasm and simple desires seemed at odds with the dangers we faced. He bounced inside his sack, his childlike glee palpable as Lyra dangled the shiny bauble before him. His wide eyes sparkled with anticipation, entirely focused on the promise of his reward. It was hard not to laugh at the contrast between the perilous maze and the innocence of Plinket, who was motivated by something as simple as a shiny necklace.
Despite his slow wit, Plinket had a knack for sensing the traps that lay hidden within the shelves. His survival instincts, though wrapped in a childlike eagerness, were surprisingly sharp. After a series of twists and turns, we came upon a narrow passage where the low rumble of shifting books echoed ominously. Above, a precarious tower of large tomes swayed, ready to fall and crush anyone foolish enough to pass below.
Plinket's eyes grew wide as he recognized the danger. "Traps! Crushes! Smashes!" he squealed; his voice high with alarm.
Gale, trying to hold onto the excitable boggle attempted to distract him, "Mhhg…What do we do, Plinket?"
Plinket's hands were still bound in the sack, and he struggled to point, his frustration growing. He stared intently at a lower shelf, whining in desperation. His eyes, wide with innocence, looked up at Lyra, pleading for her help.
Lyra, ever patient, moved in front of him, her hand resting thoughtfully on her chin. "Hmm... what should we do with you, Plinket?" she mused. Then, with a soft smile, she reached into the pocket of her robe and pulled out a small, shiny button. Plinket’s attention snapped to the button immediately, his bottom lip trembling in delight as he made soft cooing sounds.
"Plinket," Lyra’s voice was gentle, coaxing, "if I let you out of the sack, will you be a good little boggle?"
"You can’t be serious," I muttered, glancing at Lyra, but she ignored me completely, her focus on the eager boggle.
"Only a good boggle gets out of the sack and gets both prizes at the end of the maze. Can you be that boggle, Plinket?" she asked.
Plinket’s eyes shone with joy. "Bestest! Goodest! Plinket good boy!" His words were rushed, filled with childlike enthusiasm, his gaze fixed on the swaying button. Lyra slowly loosened the sack, and Gale placed it on the ground, allowing Plinket to wriggle free. He stretched his small body, gave a few absent-minded scratches to his rear once more, and then stood before us, grinning with unbridled glee.
"I hope you know what you're doing," I muttered again, casting a dubious glance at the little creature.
Plinket, his innocent excitement undiminished, suddenly remembered the trap. He scurried over to the bookshelf, eyes alight with discovery. His small hands reached for what he had spotted earlier—a metal lever, cleverly disguised as part of the wooden frame. With a gleeful giggle, Plinket pulled it down. A clanking sound filled the air as gears began to turn, and two metal plates slid into place, stabilizing the teetering books above.
As the danger passed and the books settled harmlessly onto the shelf, Plinket let out a triumphant cackle, his joy infectious. He scampered back to Lyra, taking her hand in his small, oily one, and tugged her further into the maze with the wide-eyed excitement of a child leading a game of hide-and-seek.
Halsin couldn't help but chuckle as he watched Plinket, this unlikely guide, eagerly pulling Lyra forward into the unknown. “Gods” I muttered and followed them. We continued to wind through the maze, the towering bookshelves casting long shadows in the dim light. Plinket, still clutching Lyra’s hand with innocent persistence, refused to let go as we made our way forward. The next room appeared at first glance to be another unassuming space within this massive library, its shelves lined with books in perfect order. But something felt wrong. In the center of the room, a large, unnaturally dark pool of ink sat undisturbed—its stillness felt more like a threat than tranquility.
Plinket, curious as ever, finally released Lyra’s hand and inched closer to the pool, his nose twitching as he sniffed the air. The room remained eerily silent, save for the faint sound of Plinket’s quickened breaths. His innocent curiosity morphed into nervousness, his eyes widening with alarm as the surface of the ink began to swirl. Without warning, the pool bubbled and frothed, a dark power stirring from within.
Plinket backed up immediately, retreating behind Lyra as the ink twisted and coiled, growing into long, inky tendrils. The thick, watery limbs shot upward like serpents, each one snaking through the air with deadly intent. The tendrils writhed and lashed out, as if seeking prey, their slick black surfaces gleaming with an unnatural sheen.
"Karlach, go left. I’ll take the right," the Gith ordered, her voice steady. Without hesitation, Karlach dashed to the left, while the Gith circled right. But the ink seemed to anticipate their movements. The tendrils twisted violently, some ensnaring Karlach’s arms, pinning her against a shelf, while others blocked the Gith's advance. It was as if the ink itself was sentient, playing a cruel game of cat and mouse, its tendrils mocking us with every swipe.
Shadowheart tried to dart through the parted ink, hoping to reach the center, but the tendrils shifted again, undulating to block her path at the last moment. They swayed like a mocking dance, taunting us with their slow, deliberate movements, daring us to try again.
"Dammit," Shadowheart growled in frustration, her eyes flickering with anger as we stood, trapped.
A small tug on Lyra’s robe drew her attention away from the chaos. Plinket stood beside her, his expression serious, holding a book in one hand. He tugged gently on her robe, urging her to look down. Lyra knelt and took the book from him, her brow furrowed as she opened it. The pages were blank—no words, no images, nothing but empty parchment staring back at her. Confusion crossed Lyra’s face, but Plinket nodded with enthusiasm.
“Throw! Thirsty pages, yes, yes!” he urged, his eyes gleaming with certainty.
Lyra hesitated for only a moment before understanding dawned. She hurled the book into the inky pool. It hit with a loud splash, landing open, its blank pages facing down into the swirling ink. Instantly, the tendrils whipped toward it, lashing and tearing at the book as though trying to destroy it. But instead of shredding the pages, the ink began to seep into them, sucked into the parchment as if the book itself was consuming it. A whirlpool of ink formed around the book, swirling faster and faster as the tendrils were drawn into its pages, which were now rapidly filling with inky words and images, crafting a new story from the dark pool.
The tendrils fought back, their writhing growing more frantic as they struggled against the book’s pull. For a tense moment, it seemed like the ink might overwhelm the pages, but the book continued to drink in the ink, growing heavier with every passing second.
Plinket, smiling in childlike triumph, grabbed Lyra’s hand once again, tugging her forward with glee. “Come, come! No more ink monsters!” he chirped, clearly delighted by the outcome.
Not wanting to find out whether the ink or the book would ultimately win the battle, the rest of us hurried to follow, darting past the pool as the last of the tendrils vanished into the swirling vortex. We pushed forward, deeper into the maze, leaving the strange battle behind us. The last sounds of the ink devouring itself faded into the distance, replaced by the steady, eager footsteps of Plinket, still holding Lyra’s hand as we moved ahead.
As we ventured deeper into the twisting maze, we entered a chamber lined with towering, narrow shelves, so tightly packed that squeezing between them felt like navigating a forest of ancient trees. The air was thick with silence, the kind that clung to the skin. Plinket, usually bubbling with chatter, was uncharacteristically quiet. His wide eyes darted from one shelf to the next, his lips pressed tightly shut as if any sound might trigger something terrible. He clung to Lyra’s hand, a silent plea written across his face, his other hand raised to his mouth in a desperate gesture to keep us from speaking.
The books on the shelves weren’t resting in the ordinary sense. As I edged closer, I noticed they were subtly expanding and contracting, like living, slumbering beasts. Their spines stretched and relaxed in a slow rhythm, the creak of old leather mingling with a faint whisper of what sounded like breath. It wasn’t just the stillness—there was a pulse in the air, a steady inhalation and exhalation that seemed to synchronize with the books’ movements.
Curiosity gnawed at me. I stepped even closer, mesmerized by the subtle shifting. The pages ruffled gently, as though stirred by an invisible breeze. “What in the hells?” I muttered under my breath, my voice barely a whisper.
Plinket, sensing danger in the way only he could, tugged frantically at Lyra’s hand. His eyes wide with terror, he covered his mouth with one hand, shaking his head furiously. He was begging us to stop, to be silent. Lyra gave him a soft, reassuring pat on the head, then turned to me, placing a single finger to her lips in a wordless request for quiet.
Behind me, Karlach leaned in closer, intrigued by the eerie rhythm of the books' movements. Her face drew near to one of the ancient spines, her breath disturbing a cloud of dust that had settled over the years. She tried to stifle it, to hold her breath, but her nose twitched involuntarily.
“AAAAAHHHCHOOOOO!”
Karlach’s sneeze shattered the silence like a thunderclap, its echo bouncing off the narrow walls. In an instant, the soft breathing ceased. The books snapped awake with terrifying precision; their stillness gone.
The shelves trembled as, one by one, the books began to leap off their perches, their pages unfolding to reveal rows of sharp, snapping teeth. They launched into the air, hovering and swirling above us like a dark storm cloud, their covers creaking open and shut, razor-edged pages gleaming.
What had once been a peaceful room of slumbering tomes now transformed into a swirling mass of teeth and paper, the books swooping and diving at us with wild, vicious intent. Each dive was a strike, each chomp a near miss, and we found ourselves engulfed by an ever-growing storm of relentless, biting books.
Plinket quickly hid under the hem of Lyra’s robe, peaking his head out slightly watching the mayhem of the book’s attack. The Gith attempted to swing her sword at the books as they advanced on her, but each swing only seemed to fuel her frustration and the book’s anger. Karlach and Halsin bobbed and weaved as the books dove upon them narrowly missing their targets. Shadowheart batted at the books with her mace shouting “Shoo! Shoo! Annoying pests!”
“Speaking of annoying pests,” I glared dodging a books sudden swoop “How do we stop them you little…” before I could finish my sentence, I leaped for the ground narrowly getting out of the way of the attack of a rather large encyclopedia.
“Night night song! Night night!” Plinket shouted, looking up at Lyra with wide eyes before ducking back under the safety of her hem.
Lyra took a deep breath and slowly let it out. She stared up at the books and began to sing:
“Hush now, little pages, fold your corners tight,
Drift upon the winds of dreams, beneath the silver light.
Ink and word, spell and rhyme, find your peaceful way,
Let the moon weave gentle threads, to guide you where you lay.
Lyra’s voice was like a siren’s lullaby, rich with a haunting beauty that curled through the air like soft tendrils of mist. Each note slipped from her lips with an effortless grace, shimmering with enchantment, drawing even my weary mind into a spellbound trance. Her melody was as delicate as the wind, yet powerful enough to still the chaos around us.
The books, which had once darted through the air with fierce, biting intent, began to slow. Their jagged movements softened, their once-threatening flight becoming a gentle sway. Like leaves caught in a calm breeze, they drifted above us, lulled by the magic woven into Lyra’s song. The razor-edged pages no longer snapped; instead, they fluttered quietly, almost as if the very sound of her voice cradled them into a peaceful slumber. Lyra continued:
Close your weary covers, let your edges curl,
In the cradle of the stars, let sleep around you swirl.
No need to bite, no need to fight, your time for rest has come,
Feel the magic softly hum, as slumber leaves you numb.
With each whispered word, with each quiet sigh,
The night will hold you tenderly beneath the violet sky.
So rest, little pages, in your bindings tight,
‘Til dawn’s soft glow wakes you slow, within the morning light.
Sleep, oh sleep, let the world fall away,
Wrapped in dreams of ancient things, where stories softly play.
Close your eyes and slumber deep, where the mystic waters flow,
And may your rest be peaceful 'neath the stars' gentle glow.”
As Lyra’s voice filled the room, the books, once wild and menacing, began their slow, graceful return to the shelves. One by one, they floated back, their jagged pages now smooth and calm, slipping into place as though drawn by invisible hands. The sharp edges that had once threatened us were now folded neatly, their spines nestling against each other in quiet repose. The room, once a storm of teeth and paper, softened into a sanctuary of peaceful slumber.
Lyra continued to sing, her voice a gentle guide, beckoning the books into their resting places. She gestured for us to follow, her melody flowing like a stream that carried us toward safety. As she moved, the books obediently settled behind her, lulled into a deep sleep by her enchanted tune.
Plinket slowly emerged from his hiding place under Lyra’s hem. With wide, sleepy eyes, he reached for her hand, a soft smile curling on his lips. He swayed to the rhythm of her song, his small body relaxing as the magic of her voice soothed the last remnants of fear. His eyelids fluttered, heavy with drowsiness, as he gazed up at her, trusting and calm, before we quietly slipped through the doorway behind her, leaving the slumbering books in peaceful silence.
Silently, we navigated the final twists of the maze and entered a room cluttered with towering shelves of books and an enormous pile of parchment scattered across the floor. Beyond the sea of paper, a door beckoned—a way out. Plinket's eyes lit up, and he began bouncing with excitement, his voice high-pitched and full of glee.
“Trinkets mine! Shiny pretties!” he exclaimed, pointing eagerly at the door. His joy dimmed slightly as he added, “Smudgewit, no let Plinket has pretties. Makes Plinket sleep in poo house.”
Karlach's face fell, her lip quivering in sympathy, but I cut her a sharp glance. “Absolutely not,” I muttered before turning to Lyra. “Let’s get out of here. I’ve had enough of this gods-forsaken maze.”
I took a step forward, but the ground beneath me shifted with a sudden, unnatural motion. The pile of parchment began to swirl, revealing ancient scrolls that twisted and sucked at my feet like quicksand. Panic gripped me as my legs were quickly swallowed by the writhing mass of paper. My knees sank into the scrolls, their pull relentless.
Lyra darted forward, grabbing my arms to pull me free, but with nothing solid to brace against, she too was caught in the trap. The scrolls sucked her down with frightening speed. Halsin and the others rushed in to help, grabbing onto her, but the more they pulled, the more the scrolls seemed to tighten their grip. One by one, they began sinking into the treacherous pile, their efforts futile.
Karlach paced frantically along the edge, unable to reach us. “Little man! What do we do?!”
Plinket paced in frantic circles, grunting and whimpering as we sank deeper into the swirling scrolls. His face contorted with concentration, tapping his oily fingers against his forehead, desperate to remember what to do. He paused for a moment, scrunching his eyes shut as he focused, and then—pffft—a tiny, nervous fart slipped out. Suddenly, his eyes lit up with a burst of clarity, and a triumphant grin spread across his face. Without a moment’s hesitation, Plinket scampered to the left side of the room, where a narrow, nearly invisible ledge hugged the wall. He skittered along the edge, his small frame navigating the precarious path with surprising speed, his eyes sweeping the bookshelf, searching frantically.
Then, with a screech of joy, he spotted it—a glinting silver seal embedded in the spine of a dusty book. The shimmer caught his eye, and without a second thought, he twisted the seal. A hidden mechanism clicked into place, and the scrolls beneath us began to retreat, releasing their suffocating grip. Slowly, we were lifted as the scrolls settled harmlessly back into a pile on the floor.
Halsin pulled Lyra up, and with her arm still tightly around me, she hoisted me to safety. We collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath, the terror of the near-suffocation still fresh in our minds. For a moment, I rested against Lyra, not wanting to leave the warmth of her touch. But I quickly composed myself, straightening my clothes and standing with a briskness that masked my lingering unease.
I offered Lyra my hand to help her up, but immediately regretted it when I felt the slick, greasy residue from Plinket’s grasp on her skin. I scrunched my nose in disgust as Gale handed me a handkerchief with an amused smirk. “I think you might need this more than I, Astarion.”
Grudgingly, I wiped the oil from my hand as Plinket eagerly rushed over to Lyra, grabbing her hand with renewed enthusiasm. As they approached the door, Lyra knelt, holding out her other hand with the shiny necklace and button she had promised him.
Plinket’s eyes widened, glistening with emotion. He hesitated, his fingers hovering just above the trinkets, as if expecting them to be snatched away. His expression was a mix of disbelief and hope, uncertain if this was some cruel trick.
But Lyra smiled warmly and nodded. “You earned them,” she said softly. “For being the bestest boggle.”
With a joyful squeal, Plinket scooped the trinkets from her hand, laughing with pure, childlike delight. As we exited the maze, I glanced back at our unlikely guide, marveling at how he had, in his peculiar way, saved us from certain doom. Plinket waddled beside Lyra, clutching his shiny prizes to his chest, beaming with pride and blissfully unaware of how close we'd come to disaster—all thanks to his timely distraction and quick thinking.